


Unhistoric Acts

by orphan_account



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-05 20:36:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12801870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “The Force is unusually strong with him, that much is clear. Who was his father?”Shmi considered the question carefully. She didn't expect Qui-Gon to believe or even understand the truth.In the days between their first meeting and the beginning of Anakin's training Shmi Skywalker learns to have faith in Qui-Gon Jinn.





	Unhistoric Acts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silveronthetree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silveronthetree/gifts).



> _"The growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs." - George Eliot, Middlemarch_

The home was temporary, Watto had always warned her of that. His face twisted in disgust each time he accused her of forsaking her duties to attend to Anakin, huffing and cursing under his breath as he hovered around her, wings flapping. His insults, frequent as they were, elicited little response from Shmi, the mutterings faded into the noise of the city as she resumed the tasks of the day. Under Gardulla, she had seen masters whose words translated into terrifying action, Watto’s threats were baseless and easily rebuffed. In the past Shmi held her head high after Watto had called her a filth or implied that Anakin’s father had been a scoundrel or worse. She knew how to handle him, how to nod and smile, her thin lips pressed together tightly to ensure silence and continue their routine.

Now as Shmi wrapped a bandage around her son’s knee, she found that calm had deserted her. She was careful not to worry Anakin’s delicate skin or aggravate the bruises further, but in the moment she wanted to punish him. He had disobeyed her again, his willfulness resulting in injury after the poorly constructed pod Watto made him race in had collapsed beneath the weight of its own parts.

 The accident had thrilled Anakin. Fears that would have shaken any other child were absent from his description of events. Though he stressed that his skill as a pilot had been the only thing that prevented the vehicle from colliding with the small crowd that had assembled to watch the unsanctioned rally, he had been eager to get back behind the controls.

 “Mom, you should have seen it!” he said as he squirmed in her lap. “Soon I’ll be ready for a real race.”

 Had she been aware of the situation before it had happened, Shmi never would have allowed it; Watto knew well her feelings about podracing. He had inquired several times about Anakin’s ability with droids, the uncanny expertise he’d shown with anything robotic. Understanding that she would always be against her son participating in the competitions, the Toydarian had begun to exclude her from the conversations. Seeking out Anakin directly, he exploited the boy’s enthusiasm for any form of diversion.

 Shmi had only heard of this race from the scavengers who huddled around the junk yard each morning. Up early to do the washing, she watched as they waited to trade scrap metal for food or goods. Theirs was an unfortunate lot, with little more education than the slaves, they rarely understood the value of the items they had brought, a fact the junk dealers took frequent advantage of.

 “Tell your boy good luck with the race,” one had shouted at her as she’d stood at the entrance of the shop. His mouth had curved upwards to reveal a toothless smile. “No Sebulba in the minors–he might even stand a chance!”

 The trek to the arena had left her breathless but Shmi arrived in time to see Anakin limping out ahead of the spectators. Watto buzzed behind him, his wings kicking up the filth as he counted the coins in his purse. The sight of Ani with his forehead cut and hair matted with sand triggered something primal within Shmi as she lifted him into her arms and squeezed tightly.

 “You are never to pull my son into your little games,” she said firmly, keeping her voice even as her body shook from rage. She dabbed at the gash on Anakin’s head with the hem of her tunic. “I won’t stand for it.”

 “Is that so?” Watto said, his eyes bulging in surprise. “I think you forget yourself. Humans aren’t very smart, so this time I forgive you.”

 Her master liked to remind her of his benevolence; the fine quarters she had been allowed to take, the clean clothes, and generous rations of food and supplies. Her status as a prize had afforded them a degree of dignity. Winning her and Anakin from Gardulla had helped to give Watto his notoriety–few had beaten Hutts in a wager and lived to claim their reward.

 “If you have this much time to fret over the boy, perhaps you aren’t working hard enough,” Watto said with a huff. “Slaves on Arkanis work well into the night, they repay their owner’s kindness on their backs and are glad of it. Life has been kind to the Skywalkers–that can change.”

 The shame that overwhelmed her anger brought color to her cheeks as she began the journey back to the shop. As Watto flew ahead, the dust left in his wake seemed to seep into her lungs. Anakin limped beside her, recounting the story of his victory as they walked; in the hot sun, the air and its debris clung to her skin as the invisible weight of their shackles slowed her pace.

 

* * *

 

“Mom! I’m home!”

 Anakin’s voice filled their quarters. There was an excitement to his tone that could only spell trouble and Shmi entered the common room with mild trepidation. It wasn’t uncommon for Anakin to return home with his latest work in progress or a pet they could not afford to keep. Curiosity was a trait she hoped he would carry into adulthood, even though it served to turn their home into a boarding house for strange creatures. As she cleaned the lamta she’d been preparing from her hands, Shmi expected to be greeted by yet another rock lizard, but instead was met by a small party of unfamiliar faces.

 

“These are my friends, Mom!” Anakin announced, while failing to introduce their guests properly. His attentions were focused on pulling the pretty young girl towards his room to show off the droid he had yet to complete. Shmi found herself alone with a reptilian creature and a bearded man. The sweat of the day’s work covered her body and for once she wished Anakin had attempted to alert her before inviting new people into their home. Still, the strangers were in no better shape. Sand from the impending storm covered their clothing as the pair sheepishly attempted to clean themselves off near the doorway.

 

“I’m Qui-Gon Jinn,” the man stated as he shook the dust from his cloak. “Your son was kind enough to offer us shelter.”

Core accents usually reminded Shmi of protocol droids with their lilting tones and the forced politeness, but Qui-Gon appeared removed from such formalities. Thanking Shmi for her hospitality without attempting to patronize her, he was just friendly enough that she could ignore the imposition. His questions were pragmatic; the length of sandstorms, was the home was equipped with surveillance systems typical to servant quarters in cosmopolitan cities like Coruscant, whether they were infringing on Shmi and Anakin’s stores of food and supplies. He voiced the concerns of a man with another destination in mind, a fact that put Shmi at ease.

 It would be cruel to send them back into the storm, but her rations could not survive prolonged company. Three extra mouths to feed would eventually deplete them as quickly as a drought or sandstorm might, especially with the tall creature capturing each piece of fruit it happened upon with its tongue.

 “I have to apologize for Jar Jar’s manners,” Qui-Gon said, his eyes narrowing in silent warning as the creature bit into a piece of Gor apple. “Gungans have little concept of tact. ”

 “I’m sure that makes him an interesting companion,” said Shmi softly. She could ignore Jar Jar’s oddities, but Qui-Gon’s had begun to affect her. The man stood too close whilst speaking, he stared intently as though attempting to seek something out in her features.

 “There are many humans who share that problem,” she continued. “As long as Jar Jar can restrain his appetite until I finish preparing dinner, it’s alright.”

 “May I help you?” He asked. “Seems unfair for you to shoulder the burden alone.”

 “Alright,” she nodded. “If you could wash those sidi gourds and chop them into small pieces.”

 It had been a long time since Shmi had another person in her kitchen, even then it had only been one of the local herb peddlers seeking to demonstrate the exotic seasonings they’d smuggled in from Bespin or Corellia. Qui-Gon towered over her as she prepared the lamta, watching more than helping, observing as she worked with unrestrained curiosity.

 “It’s been quite awhile since I’ve had the pleasure of watching someone cook,” he said, with a look of appreciation. “You take such care with everything you do.”

 Seated at the table hours later, Shmi could still feel the weight of Qui-Gon’s gaze upon her. The wind beat against the shutters as she served her guests, its sound a faint static in Shmi’s ears as she found herself drifting out of the conversation. The girl–Padme–spoke with a regal manner that belied her status as a servant and Shmi wondered idly if the education of a handmaiden on Naboo was equivalent to that of an wealthy trader on Tatooine. She wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case–the planet’s reputation as a backwater was well earned, still something seemed amiss about the girl’s worldliness, the bold manner in which she chose to express herself.

 “I can’t believe there’s still slavery in the galaxy,” the girl said as Shmi filled her glass. “The Republic’s anti-slavery laws–“

 There was an innocence to Padme’s shock. The incredulity that crept into her voice at the thought of the Republic’s limitations made Shmi wary. She could not imagine being so far removed from bondage as to doubt its existence. As she sat down at the table, the weight of the day’s work registered at last, Shmi felt the ache rising in her bones, the weariness she’d hid to provide for her company.

 “The Republic doesn’t exist out here–we must survive on our own.”

 Padme nodded in response. The somber acceptance that crossed over her face somehow made her seem even more beautiful. For a moment Shmi wanted to comfort her, to assure the outlanders that the lives of slaves were not as dismal as they imagined, their pity would be worse than any ignorance bestowed upon them by a lie.

 It was then that Qui-Gon's hand closed over hers. The gesture was brief, a rough palm encircling hers and squeezing lightly in an act of reassurance. Warmth flowed from him, a wave of comfort unnatural in its intensity. Shmi shook off his touch before Anakin could notice, his keen senses thankfully focused on the talk of pod races and conquest filling the room. Shmi searched her guests for signs of acknowledgement; the Gungan busied himself by licking his plate, Padme’s dark eyes were downcast, lost in contemplation–unaware of the scene that played out before her.

When Shmi turned to face Qui-Gon, he was inscrutable. Their eyes met in silent challenge, the flow of energy between them continuous and unnerving, with neither willing to respond to its pull. Words passed across the table, a stream of dialogue that failed to settle into a natural rhythm. Tension built as Shmi shifted in and out of the conversation, Qui-Gon’s stare fixed on her even as Anakin began to speak of Jedi.

 

* * *

 “The Force is unusually strong with him, that much is clear. Who was his father?”

 Shmi considered the question carefully. She didn't expect Qui-Gon to believe or even understand the truth. The story of Anakin’s parentage was something she has guarded–no logic existed to explain what happened to her, and Shmi had never felt the need to convince others of the truth. Her low birth had spared her from the questions that arose from an unexpected pregnancy, no one bothered to ask why a woman like her might be in such a predicament or dared to think the situation could bring anything but struggle.

 As they stood before her home, Shmi watched a family move through the streets of the slave quarters. The bustle propelled them forward into the mass of people; travelers, traders, slaves, and freemen traveling through the narrow pathways paying them no attention. They huddled together moving as a unit, the parents little older than children themselves, their child a slip of a girl who clung to her mother’s skirts, smiling all the while. They looked in need of a meal, Shmi thought to herself, happiness would only carry them so far.

Even with the chaos of the crowd surrounding them, there was a stillness to Qui-Gon, a calm beneath his imposing features. His beauty was unnerving, long hair falling about his shoulders, a mouth as full and wide as a woman’s. Were he a younger man, Shmi would mistake him for a pleasure servant, she would find him wanton and dissolute, far easier to ignore.

 Shmi had done her best to be courteous, she’d answered each query her guests had, entertained their ideas about pod racing, and provided them with every comfort she knew how to give.

 None of it mattered. The Jedi had disrupted her routine, and at every turn her mask of charity threatened to slip. There had been no repeat of the touch they’d shared, she had made sure of that. Cautious in her every interaction since carefully avoiding contact, Shmi kept their chats brief focused on Anakin or the parts needed to repair the Jedi’s ship. Each time Qui-Gon had sought to help her with the cleaning, or attempted slyly to steer the conversation elsewhere, she’d met him with silence, refusing to engage in the pointless chatter, to reveal herself between pleasantries and half-asked questions. She’d resolved to tell the Jedi only when he’d asked plainly–only when he’d become more than a stranger.

 Anakin had announced his existence not with the sickness and discomfort Shmi had seen pregnancy bring to other women. He began with a prickling on the edge of her awareness, the sudden knowledge of an entire universe expanding within her, power so great it threatened to engulf her. His life force strengthened her own, the thought of their future together propelled her forward, pushed her to withstand her years with the Hutts, and then Watto and his insults. Life had given her a gift beyond anything she could have requested, she had not dared to ask for more.

 The Jedi offered more, his mere presence willed her to hope even as she scolded herself for being foolish. Perhaps this was a chance, why would such a man enter her life if not to better it?

 “There was no father,” Shmi admitted. “That I know of...I carried him, I gave him birth. I can't explain what happened.”

 When Qui-Gone had asked to speak with her about Anakin, Shmi understood the implication. Jedi were a rarity in the outer rim, but their interest in a child usually signaled one thing–recruitment. The rituals of their order were a well-guarded secret, but Shmi had only heard good things about their kind. She had helped to fill Anakin’s head with the myths of Jedi heroism even as she debated the truth of such stories. Bravery was a rare trait, she doubted so many could possess it–the thought of thousands with the power to rise above the fray seemed improbable. So many claimed feats of daring, only to crumble the moment danger presented itself, but Jedi were meant to be different, their gifts allowed for resolve beyond that of normal men.

 In her heart she knew that was the life Anakin was meant for. Even if the Jedi were imperfect, they could channel his energy into something meaningful, train him to harness his intelligence and reflexes into something more. There was nothing for Anakin on Tatooine–already his skills outmatched the tasks he was asked to take on. Boredom pushed him towards trouble, following behind the likes of Watto. As a Jedi he would be free, he would be pushed to lead.

 “Can you help him?”

 The question is uncomplicated, naked in its desperation. With anyone else Shmi would have ignored the urge to ask, she would have pushed her want down until disappeared.

 “Had he been born in the Republic, we would have identified him early,” Qui-Gon began, his voice wavering as he spoke. “He would have become Jedi, no doubt. He has the way, but it's too late for him now, he's too old...”

Qui-Gon faltered his way through the explanation. Half-hearted excuses about Anakin’s age, his unsuitability. Shmi nodded as she stared into the distance, watching the dust and sand spread through the streets the way it did after every storm. She hated the sand; it battered the walls of the buildings, wore them down, exposing the straw and plaster that were the bones of their construction. It worked its way into the cracks it created, to rub the raw the points of connection, to reduce everything into a version of itself. Particles that would catch on the air and float into nothingness, fragments to be consumed by the dunes and begin the cycle anew.

 

There would be no rescue, Shmi realized, they would have to save themselves.

 

* * *

 

The pull of fantasy was difficult to resist, even for a slave.

 

Shmi could recall the desires that once lifted her heart–thoughts of romance and companionship she’d abandoned the moment she’d felt Anakin growing inside her. She’d seen slaves who’d lost themselves to dreams that extended beyond the plausible. It was one thing to wish for a better master or kinder treatment–another to envision a life beyond one’s station. She could recall countless pretty girls drawn in by outlanders who spoke of love and freedom, only to disdain both ideals the moment their coupling ceased to amuse. “Be wary of men with soft hands,” her mother had told her often in the years before she was sold. “Their promises never last.”

In the darkness she could imagine a different outcome, she could ask for the things she wanted most. Qui-Gon’s hand resting against her shoulder, his words sweet and gentle, fleeting promises they knew would never be kept and must never be believed. It would have taken so little for him to press his lips to the back of her neck and caress the delicate skin hidden beneath her braid, to fill her again with overwhelming warmth and sate the foolish longing that burned within her.

 Qui-Gon had proved himself unworthy of such emotion. His rejection of Anakin as much a slight to her as it was to her son. Beneath his serenity, he bore the same uncertainty as all men, the same doubt. Shmi had overheard his hushed talk of midichlorian counts, the transmissions he sent out into the desert to the boy he’d already chosen for his apprentice. Anakin’s abilities confounded him, he could not provide the steady future she’d dreamt of, nor the assurances they both craved.

 And still, she burned.

 

* * *

“I want to train Anakin, you must know that.”

Shmi looked up from the washing to acknowledge Qui-Gon’s presence as she hung a damp sheet up to dry. The clothes flapped in the wind as the night air hit them, the noise of their movement louder than the sound of his voice as he paced the narrow space between the house and clothesline. With his hair freed and hanging over his eyes, he had the look impassioned look of a rogue. His sleep clothes hid little of his body: the thin shirt far too small for a man of his size had been the only suitable thing they’d been able to find in the market. At first, they’d laughed at its length, the way it exposed his arms and legs, but now Shmi wished they’d searched longer and found something more appropriate. Qui-Gon failed to notice her reaction, the dim light hid the color that rose in her cheeks.

“The council would never accept him,” he continued, breathless with frustration. “They believe that the influence of the outside world is corrupting, that anyone who doesn’t start their training at birth is a liability destined to be led astray.”

The inner of the Jedi were foreign to her, she had no knowledge of their beliefs or traditions, only the faith that their order could provide a better life for her son.

“And what do you believe?”

Qui-Gon stood beside her in the moonlight their bodies close enough to embrace. Heat rose off the desert even as the wind crashed against the sand. They should go indoors, Shmi thought, they should part ways and never speak of this. She turned to unpin a blanket from the line, to busy herself with the day’s work, the tasks still undone long after the sun had set.

“I believe there are times when the Jedi understand so little of the world they inhabit. The force guides us to places beyond what our training prepares us for,” Qui-Gon paused to touch the base of Shmi’s braid and the exposed skin beneath it. “I don’t regret the life I’ve led but there are moments when I wonder if what we are given equals our sacrifice. I should like to know what it is to answer only to myself, to live without the fears I am sworn to deny, passions I must keep in check–”

She had not asked for honesty. It was easier to view Qui-Gon as a symbol, a path to a better life, an example of the uncomplicated heroism that filled myths. She had wanted Anakin to control his emotions, emulate Qui-Gon's calm in order to shield himself against a world that proved crueler with each day, but there was no escape– even for heroes, even for Jedi.

Shmi grasped Qui-Gon’s hand in hers and brought it to her lips, barely registering the gasp it drew from him. Her mouth closed over each fingertip as she kissed him again with gentle urgency. He had voiced the emotion which welled inside her, laid himself bare as he exposed the roots of their connection. She moved from palm to wrist and felt the quickening of his pulse.

“I trust you,” she said, shocked by the tears that flowed down her cheek. “In all things, I would trust you.”

They curled into each other, sharing warmth as the wind grew from a breeze to a gale, its ferocity signaling storms to come. Shmi heard the familiar noises; droids clattering as they moved through the streets in search of wayward slaves, the howls of stray dogs, and the ceaseless progression of sand swept skyward. The grains would clatter against the windows, she thought, they would beat loudly against the door.

Currents moved between them when he kissed her–understanding, tenderness, and raw power that crackled like static. Qui-Gon’s touch was tempered with the gentleness reserved for maidens. Shmi could recall the days when she was green and naïve; she had no desire to revisit them. She pulled Qui-Gon closer, urging him on as they fumbled together, spilling the remaining washing onto the ground as they kissed and laughed. Her worries, once so present in her mind, were reduced to a lull as she gave herself over to happiness and exhaled a breath into the coming storm.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this is something akin to what you were hoping for. Played around a little with time so perhaps Qui-Gon and co. weren't staying with Shmi that long, but dammit they should have been.


End file.
